His colloquy with Jack only lasted a few minutes, then he walked homewards, crossing the Metropolitan Meat-market, going up St. John’s Lane, beneath St. John’s Arch, thence to Rosoman Street and Merlin Place, where at present he lived.  All the way he pondered Clem’s words.  Already their import had become familiar enough to lose that first terribleness.  Of course he should never take up the proposal seriously; no, no, that was going a bit too far; but suppose Clem’s husband were really contriving this plot on his own account?  Likely, very likely; but he’d be a clever fellow if he managed such a thing in a way that did not immediately subject him to suspicion.  How could it be done?  No harm in thinking over an affair of that kind when you have no intention of being drawn into it yourself.  There was that man at Peckham who poisoned his sister not long ago; he was a fool to get found out in the way he did; he might have—­

The room in which he found Pennyloaf sitting was so full of fog that the lamp seemed very dim; the fire had all but died out.  One of the children lay asleep; the other Pennyloaf was nursing, for it had a bad cough and looked much like a wax doll that has gone through a great deal of ill-usage.  A few more weeks and Pennyloaf would be again a mother; she felt very miserable as often as she thought of it, and Bob had several times spoken with harsh impatience on the subject.

At present he was in no mood for conversation; to Pennyloaf’s remarks and questions he gave not the slightest heed, but in a few minutes tumbled himself into bed.

‘Get that light put out,’ he exclaimed, after lying still for a while.

Pennyloaf said she was uneasy about the child; its cough seemed to be better, but it moved about restlessly and showed no sign of getting to sleep.

‘Give it some of the mixture, then.  Be sharp and put the light out.’

Pennyloaf obeyed the second injunction, and she too lay down, keeping the child in her arms; of the ‘mixture’ she was afraid, for a few days since the child of a neighbour had died in consequence of an overdose of this same anodyne.  For a long time there was silence in the room.  Outside, voices kept sounding with that peculiar muffled distinctness which they have on a night of dense fog, when there is little or no wheel-traffic to make the wonted rumbling.

‘Are y’asleep?’ Bob asked suddenly.

‘No.’

’There’s something I wanted to tell you.  You can have Jane Snowdon here again, if you like.’

‘I can?  Really?’

’You may as well make use of her.  That’ll do; shut up and go to sleep.’